


The Last Piece

by Author_Of_Sin



Series: Skeleton House Series [6]
Category: Horrortale - Undertale AU, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horrortale, Amputation, Angst, Assisted Suicide, Axe/nihilismpastry, Body Horror, Dark, Death, F/M, If you don't know her work I suggest you go check her out, Like seriously fuckin' dark, NOT canon to the Voidshatter blog's story, Sad, Sans/Tumblr user and AO3 author nihilismpastry, Smut, Sort Of, THERE ARE NO HAPPY ENDINGS HERE, seriously guys there's nothing happy here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 14:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11899572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Author_Of_Sin/pseuds/Author_Of_Sin
Summary: When all that remains is the last piece.[Gift Fic]





	The Last Piece

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NihilismPastry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NihilismPastry/gifts).



> Highly recommended listening: [this tune right here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arMu4f8rnBk)

He knew.

He knew, he _knew_ it couldn't possibly last, that he'd been kidding himself for far too long. He knew that this... _this was the end._

Each part he took, each piece he claimed, every bit he gave away; all of it meant nothing, _nothing_ if Paps was okay, if he was fed; but _stars,_ he just couldn't keep it going any longer. There was so much _missing,_ so many empty spaces now. So many things about her he could never replace.

* * * * *

She woke again, in yet another daze, this one thicker, foggier than the previous. Even through the haze of her waking mind, she knew what this was. She knew what was next.

It had happened before, after all.

Time and time again.

First a hand, then a forearm, then right on up to the shoulder; each time he puts her to sleep, each time he frowns more deeply as he sings her a sweet melody that might be a lullaby, luring her to sleep as the chemicals do their work.

She always wakes with a little less than she goes to sleep with. Always with a new pain she can't do anything about.

She knows, she _knows_ it's for the best, it's for Papyrus; it's not a choice Sans makes lightly, but what else can he do? She knows he loves her, just as she loves him, the bond of their souls too tight, too sweetly agonizing to ever let her doubt.

So when her left arm was gone, she smiled at him, and smoothed out the crease between his thin, bony brows—thin, _thin,_ everything about him was thin, even for a skeleton, how could he be so thin?—and told him everything would be alright.

But Papyrus was _always_ hungry.

He teased the ledge of the cliff for a long time, only deciding to start taking her leg when she actually argued for it, despite the madness she could see in his eye—the madness she only deepened with her repeated arguments.

Again, he took it bit by bit, only taking what was absolutely needed, rationing and using every slice of fat, every shard of bone, every swatch of skin for something useful.

When that leg was gone, she hadn't had to argue very hard for him to take the other leg. By the time he'd made it up to her remaining knee, she could tell he was losing hope. She tried to comfort him, but he rejected the touches from her only hand, growing angry at her attempts.

The rest of her leg was taken in chunks, over the next few weeks, with few words spoken between them. He looked more resigned, more strained each time.

More hollow.

* * * * *

He half stumbled in the shed door, long past empty on his energy reserves, only staying upright and mobile through sheer force of will. He'd been doing his best to take only the smallest portions of what they'd harvested from fallen humans for years, but this...

...this was _hers._ It was _her_ meat he'd been feeding to his brother, and every single ounce and pound weighed more heavily on his mind.

He didn't know what to do with this feeling; this regret, this _guilt_ that came with eating the flesh of his soul's mate. He hadn't felt an emotion like it in so, so many years. Since... well, since not long after Frisk left, really. Since they left all of Monsterdom to rot and die down here, without a single care.

He'd nearly cracked his socket from gripping it so tightly over the past week, trying, _trying_ and _failing_ to keep himself grounded.

He hadn't eaten anything he'd harvested from her since her first leg was gone.

Oh, he'd tried. He'd tried and it had tasted like so much dust, and he'd given the rest to Papyrus instead. At least he could eat it with a clean conscience. He didn't know the meat was from his brother's soulmate; how could he? Best to let him eat and be happy, as long as possible.

He knew he needed to teach Paps the last bits about how to cut the meat up. His huge brother's never been so great with the more delicate tasks; hard as he tries, he's just too big, too clumsy. Too _well-fed._

He looks at her now, his gaze listless and dull, a deep, heavy sigh sliding out between his clenched teeth. She was obviously asleep, but from the slight jerk in her thinly blanketed abdomen when the light from the opening door spilled across her lower half, he can tell she's awake now. He closes the door behind him and locks it, keeping the cold and any curious monsters out. Carefully setting his axe by the door, he takes his usual steps over to the tool bench, reaching up and sliding the cleaver off the rack. Turning it, he looks it over in the faded light of the curtained window, checking the edge for nicks and dings with a trained eye.

When he finds the edge sharp and clean enough to satisfy him, he slowly turns to her. The flawless night vision that being a monster of the Underground gives him pierces the darkness with the ease of sliding a well-maintained knife into flesh, allowing him to see the sleepy smile she sends his way. His soul clenches tightly at the sight, his usual manic smile turning into a grimace.

"Hey, babe. You... you alright? You look a little wobbly there." Her voice is so, so weak. He hasn't been feeding her much for a while now, but it's still more than he's been eating. How does she sound so much more frail than he does?

He watches her face, quietly rotating the handle of the cleaver in his grip, trying to resist the need to go for his socket with his fingers and failing miserably. He hisses at the grounding pain, the soft sigh of relief that follows only granting him a momentary release from the reality where he's come to take his soulmate's last offering, yet she's laying there, limbless, asking after _his_ health, as if any of that will matter, after tonight.

He can't leave it like this.

He'll give them both one last comfort, before the end.

He sits down by her pelvis, setting the cleaver nearby and patting it once, gently, then sliding his hand over her ribs, up over her sternum, to rest his cold palm on her warm cheek. Finally, he looks her in the eye and tugs the best smile he can manage onto his face. "m'fine, sweet meat. m'always fine when i look at you."

She smirks, shaking her head feebly. "Bloody charmer." He can see the muscles in her shoulder flex as she tries to move a phantom limb, probably trying to press her own palm to his cheek, but she has no palm, and no arm, and there is nothing left now to take but the only thing that _is_ left.

Her life.

And his, of course, because in the end, Fate just _had_ to kick him that hard in his bony ass, and force him to bond his soul to a fucking _food source._

Ain't life fuckin' _grand?_

That smile she has lessens when she remembers she has nothing to reach out and touch him with anymore. He feels his soul clench again, harder this time, so he does the only thing he knows to do and he bends down, setting his teeth against her shoulder and clamping down as he has so many times before, reaffirming his mark, his claim, their bond. The soft whimper the pain elicits from her now is a pale echo of the screams she once gifted to him, the sounds he wishes he could hear again with everything he is, if only because it would mean she is whole again.

But no, there is little left now, but to get on with it. He barely has the energy for the magic his next act will cost him, but it hardly matters, since it will be his last. He raises himself above her, her life's blood dripping from his teeth, and forces that damn smile on his face so he can give her his final words. "one last time, my little pastry puff, for old time's sake."

He settles on one elbow, reaching down to tug her blanket aside, then shoves his shorts down without ceremony, summoning his cock and grasping it, guiding it home within her warmth. It's tight and she wasn't quite ready for him, but he's not letting it stop him, despite the resistance she gives the surface of his magic. Once he's hilted, he slaps his hand down beside her, reaching out and dragging the instrument of their death nearer—not picking it up for use just yet, only bringing it to hand.

He starts up a rough pace, gasping softly as her walls tug at him, dragging him deeper and deeper into her, as if she is an ocean that means to swallow him whole. He snarls and drags her soul out, then his, slamming and mashing them together in a rushed, sloppy union he's denied himself until now. If she wants to swallow him, then he'll let himself drown _properly._

When he feels the sheer strength of the power of her love for him, the rolling sea of his hip's motions stutter, faltering under the weight of it all, then returns with renewed force when his own love meets hers, mingling and blending seamlessly just as their bodies do. He feels the stilted pleasure he gives her, he feels her willingness to give of herself, he feels the stubborn resolve that lies beneath and he buries himself in all of it, with everything he has.

Her walls start to flutter around him and he smiles, a true, genuine smile; more real than he's felt in years. His own end is coming just as quickly, the _schick!_ of the blade going unnoticed by her as he lifts it just enough to bring it over her throat. He looks down at her, stares her right in the eye as she comes, and it's as he finally spills over that he presses down, slicing through her tender throat, watching the blood begin to ooze over the blade before it's even fully done its job.

He watches as her eyes blow wide in shock, then slowly ease into exhaustion, and acceptance; the glow of their souls between them dimming, casting shadows on the black now gurgling free of her throat. He slides the blade out and revels in the hot burst of arterial spray that spatters across his face and neck and hand; smiling, still smiling, always smiling.

He watches as the light leaves her eyes, bears witness as his soul begins to crack against hers; the light of hers fading too quickly for anyone to save her now.

He's still smiling, even as he sees his fingers turn to dust.

**Author's Note:**

> ❤--[Talks-To-Skeletons (Undertale AU (Voidshatter) Ask Blog)](https://talks-to-skeletons.tumblr.com/)\--❤
> 
> ❤--[My Book](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00QZ5AI1K)\--❤--[Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/SableWolfe)\--❤--[Ko-Fi](https://ko-fi.com/A2832IP7)\--❤
> 
> ❤--Skype: shannaleia--❤
> 
> ❤ Thanks for reading! If you enjoy the story, please feel free to leave a review with your thoughts! ❤  
>  ❤ I love reading comments and reply to all of them. ❤


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